I used to throw stones in the sapphire sea, 
and let sand stick between my toes, 
listening to the birds sing and kiss the sky, 
while I leave my door unlocked at night.
 
I booked a flight first chance I could get, 
to see rolling mountains instead of warm beaches, 
or lively houses with warm smiles. 
More people meant more love, I thought. 
 
I said goodbye to the beach, 
where I built my first sandcastle. 
I said goodbye to my friendship of twelve years,
so I can make twelve more friends. 
Ready to hunt for a new home, a new village to wonder,
a new place to run down streets and shops, 
 I bid farewell to familiarity. 
 
My ignorance took away the rest of my goodbyes. 
I didn’t say goodbye to the local bread and milk,
or the barely used key to my house, 
or even the town centre that fulfilled my needs,
all on one bumpy road. 
I didn’t say goodbye to the short walks to the shops, 
or the quiet afternoons, or the conversations I had
strolling through the streets.
 
I am deafened by buses and defeated by traffic,
Grunted at by busy workers and shoved by locals 
who have never had a day off. 
Now, I panic about an unlocked door. 
I live in a world that tastes like plastic,
with rubbish and processed food.
 
Even the long fields frown back at me, 
with yellowed grass and elm butts left.
I cry at the murky brown rivers,
and the distance to the beach,
all for a swim in muddy water.